Quand Tu Souhaites sur la Belle Evangeline
by Billee Wisconsin
Summary: Merlin left Andalasia after King Arthur's death, taking all the magic with him. But when Maleficent returns from exile with her new pal Hades, it's apparent that magic is anything but gone.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES**:  
What can I say about this? I saw _Princess and the Frog_ when it was in theaters and absolutely fell in love with the characters. (And I have to say, my favorite couple in the whole thing was Ray and Evangeline.) A friend and I had been batting around the idea of a massive Disney crossover for a while -- and, well, this is my attempt at one.  
Naveen speaks Italian because Maldonian sounded like Italian to me the first time I saw the movie.  
If there are any foreign language phrases you can't figure out, I recommend going to wordreference (dot) com.

**DISCLAIMER**:  
Everything (c) Disney.

**Quand Tu Souhaites sur la Belle Evangeline**

_Look how she lights up the sky:  
Ma belle Evangeline.  
So far above me, yet I  
Know her heart belongs to only me._

**ONE.**

Naveen bared his teeth at himself in the mirror, closely examining his pearly whites as they gleamed in the light streaming in through the window, turning his face first one way and then the other to ensure they were of a satisfactory whiteness. "So," he said around a finger he had jammed into his mouth to pick at a bit of plaque, "remind me again who it is you know that's going to the coronation?"

The burly, dark-haired man behind him rocked his chair onto its back legs and spat into a nearby potted plant. "_Well_," he began, and Naveen knew he had asked the wrong question. He had heard Gaston's tale of misery and woe several times before, and had no desire to hear it again. He just wanted to know the girl's name. "Well," he repeated, "she's a very pretty girl – and, you know, I'm a handsome man, so we're perfect for each other, naturally – and her name is Belle—"

Ah, there was the name. Belle. Naveen promptly stopped listening, filling in the story mentally as he proceeded to turn his attention from his glistening smile to his crown. It was a little tarnished, he thought as Gaston expounded on how Belle had so very nearly agreed to marry him when she was whisked away by a dreadful Beast. He breathed on the gold and buffed it with his sleeve, admiring his distorted profile in the now-gleaming surface, continuing to ignore Gaston as he elaborated on his daring attempts to rescue the girl from the clutches of that horrendous Beast.

"—I don't even know why she's going, really," Gaston said. "Apparently she's going with that _monster_ that lives up in the castle. I mean, the people think that _thing_ is royalty – can you believe it?" The Frenchman let out a loud guffaw, slapping his knee several times and not seeming to notice that Naveen wasn't joining in the merriment, being preoccupied now with polishing the brass medals on his jacket.

Not that _he_ had actually earned the medals – no, no. Wars were far too messy. No, the medals had been his grandfather's. Or his great-grandfather's. Or something. But who really kept track of things like that? They looked impressive, anyway. "Turn some music on, or something."

Gaston frowned at being ordered around, but let his chair fall back onto its four legs and crossed the room to the Victrola, putting on a record. A bawdy waltz began to play, and the Maldonian prince was instantly on his feet, dancing around the room with an invisible partner. "_Achitanza_! I love this song!" He began singing along tunelessly with it as he danced.

Gaston rolled his eyes and dropped himself back into his chair, waiting impatiently for the record to come to its end and Naveen to come to his senses. The waltz became faster and more furious, and Naveen swept a floor lamp into his arms as a makeshift dance partner, proceeding to knock several things to the floor, where they promptly shattered. As the final chord was hit, he flung his arms wide and sent the lamp reeling towards the open doorway, where it struck LeFou squarely in the forehead.

Without bothering to apologize to Gaston's stout lackey, Naveen strode easily back to his dressing table and pulled his jacket on over his tunic before carelessly dropping his crown onto his head at a jaunty angle. He may not have had the money, but he sure looked the part. With a final check in the mirror, he turned on his heel and strode jovially from the room, Gaston following, with LeFou bringing up the rear, still rubbing at his reddening forehead.

Naveen, unsurprisingly, was the first out the doors of the chateau, pausing to look back at the other two men with an impatient frown. "Come!" he said imperiously, clapping his hands. "Time is of the essence, _non_? And already we are wasting it!"

Gaston rolled his eyes and continued at his same pace; LeFou gave a nervous sort of jump and trotted a bit faster. It was obvious it would be a long, long night.

Naveen danced ahead of them, stepping in time with the beat of a distant tambourine, strumming an imaginary ukulele as he went, humming to himself. He kicked his heels into the air and slid around a corner, nearly knocking a man standing there clear off his feet. "_Mi dispiace_," he said, grabbing the man by the elbow to keep him from toppling over.

"Not at all, _monsieur_, not at all," the man said. He caught hold of one of Naveen's hands in one of his own thin ones and peered at the prince's open palm. "Why, if I were a betting man, I'd wager I'm in the presence of visiting royalty," he said. He looked up at the Maldonian prince's astonished face and grinned slyly.

"_Achitanza_, that's amazing! Gaston! This man has just read my palm!"

The Frenchman had caught up to the prince, glanced from Naveen's eager face to the crown gleaming upon his head to the man in front of him and back again. He rolled his eyes and continued walking, LeFou following in his wake.

"What else can you tell me?" the Maldonian asked.

The man shot a glance at Naveen's eager face and dropped the prince's hand. "Much, much more," he said, still grinning broadly as he pulled out a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to the prince. "And for you – free of charge. If you'll just follow me."

Naveen followed the man down several progressively narrower streets, and finally down an alleyway to a doorway, over which hung a sign reading _Doctor Facilier's Voodoo Emporium_. He hesitated as the door opened – no, it definitely hadn't opened on its own; faulty hinges, that was all – and then entered, seating himself on one side of the table as Doctor Facilier swooped across the room and dropped himself into the opposite chair. The prince peered around in the semidarkness, straining his eyes to get a better look at the interior of the parlor. A sudden flare of light in front of him momentarily blinded him and captured his attention as the light settled to a weird sort of greenish glow. At the table's center, a candle was lit under a green shade – that explained the greenness of the light. And on the other side of the table, Doctor Facilier was regarding him pensively, the slender forefinger of one hand stroking at one side of his moustache while the fingers of his other hand drummed themselves on top of a deck of cards.

They regarded each other in silence for so long that when the man across from him spoke, Naveen jumped and nearly overturned his chair.

"So," the witchdoctor said. "Prince Naveen. Maldonia, right? Yes, well, my friends on the other side tell me we may be able to help each other out." He picked up the deck of cards and shuffled it, continuing to watch Naveen carefully.

The prince wasn't sure if he was meant to respond, so he kept his silence.

"You see—" Doctor Facilier flipped over a card and laid it on the table, pushing it toward Naveen. It depicted a beggar huddled in a doorway from the fierce winds of winter. "—I'm a little low on cash right now—" Another card went down. A man with a crown leaving a palace, his head bowed. "—but it seems, so are you." A third card: a king being crowned. "And your purpose here in Paris is to be crowned king." He laid down another card. This one depicted a pretty, young woman in a ball gown, dancing. "Problem is, you've got to have yourself a princess to be crowned king."

"_Faldi faldonza! Una principessa! Oh, la-la-la-la!_" Naveen made a miserable, strangled sort of noise. How could he have forgotten? No, how could he not have _known_? Damn. He knew there was a reason he should have paid more attention to what his parents had told him as a child.

"Fortunately," the man went on, laying down a fifth card. A pretty blonde girl in an elaborate ball gown, her arm through that of a crowned man. "Doctor Facilier can help make that happen." A sixth card: a wedding.

Naveen looked from the cards to Facilier, who was grinning broadly. "So, you get me a princess, I become king," he said. "I still have no money."

The man grinned still more broadly as he dropped a seventh card to the table. "That's what Daddy La Bouff is for. See, you marry his daughter, and you're set for life off the La Bouff sugar fortune. And in return for securing you your throne and fortune, I want a share. We'll split it right down the middle – 60-40. What do you say?"

The prince hesitated. It was true, he needed a princess to become king. But he was Prince Naveen – he was irresistible. He could easily find a princess on his own. Still, though... the man _was_ very charismatic, and he needed a princess _now_. "And you can make sure she marries me by the coronation ceremony?" he asked.

"As sure as the sun will shine. Do we have a deal?" Doctor Facilier held out a hand across the table.

Slowly, Naveen nodded, and extended his own arm to shake the man's hand. A moment later, he jerked it back and examined his palm. There was a small cut on the side of his hand, bleeding.

"Sorry," Doctor Facilier said. "Guess I didn't realize my ring was so sharp. Listen, you just go on with the coronation festivities, and everything will fall into place. You just trust Doctor Facilier to take care of you. _D'accord_?"

Naveen nodded again and hesitated a moment before standing. He wasn't sure if he should thank the man or not, so he simply turned and left the building, glad to finally emerge back into the cool night air of Paris. The experience had been a little unreal, and he was wondering if he had been right to accept Doctor Facilier's proposal – not that he had been given much of a choice, when he really thought about it. But then, thinking wasn't something Naveen tried to do too often. As far as he was concerned, it was best to just keep dancing through life without worrying about anything too serious.

And so, quite turned around and lost, the Maldonian prince danced his way down the streets of Paris, following the distant sound of a tambourine, hoping to come across some familiar landmarks and get set back on his merry way to the coronation ball. As he rounded a corner, he abruptly came face-to-face with the tambourine player, startling her so much that she stepped backward and overturned a hat full of coins lying on the ground beside her.

She shot him a glowering look as she began scooping the gold coins back into the hat. She opened her mouth to say something to him, saw the glinting crown upon his head, and seemed to think better of it, settling for swearing under her breath in French.

"_Mi dispiace_, _signiorina_," he said absently, dropping a few coins from his own pocket into the hat. He ignored the fresh glare she threw his way, and looked around for any trace of Gaston or LeFou. They were nowhere to be seen; they were already at the ball, no doubt, and Gaston probably had his Belle on his arm and they were whirling away to a mad polka or waltz. Probably a waltz, Naveen decided; Gaston had never been a fan of the polka. But yes, he was sure they'd be dancing away, not a care in the world, not thinking of poor Prince Naveen lost alone on the streets of Paris….

Alone. He'd be showing up at the ball alone. That would never do. Really, he had never had a _date _to take with him, per se – he had planned on having his choice of princess once he arrived – but he had been planning on arriving with Gaston: two bachelors looking for a fun time, good wine, and pretty girls. Naveen's eyes slid back to the tambourine player, still picking up stray coins as she continued muttering away to the goat beside her, and an idea began to form in his mind. She was pretty, for a street performer; no one would have to know he had found her on the street – it was, after all, a costume ball; she could simply have chosen to dress as a gypsy girl. He knelt and began helping her collect her earnings. He took a deep whiff; she didn't smell too badly. He watched her hands for a moment; hardly any dirt under her fingernails. He glanced at her face; pretty, but for the scowl, and free from any sort of deformations or noticeable blemishes. Her hair was a little matted and oily – but who would look that closely?

He cleared his throat. "Do you dance here often?"

"Only on Thursdays," she said shortly, picking up the hat and straightening, tucking it under her arm. She tucked her dark hair behind her ear with her free hand and pressed her lips together.

"But today is _sabato_, no?"

She rolled her eyes and made to pass by him. "Look, if you don't mind—"

"Wait, wait, wait—!" Naveen reached out and caught her by the elbow as she brushed past him. He released her arm as she stopped walking and faced him. She put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows; obviously, Naveen hadn't made a good impression. "_Ascolti_," he said, "there is a party tonight – a big party, with lots of important people. You come with me, I get you in, you dance there, and you make money – more money than dancing on a street corner, no?"

She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head sideways, looking at him suspiciously. "What's the catch?"

"The catch? There is no catch. Maybe – okay, so it is a party for me, and it would be bad form to show up alone. So you will come, yes?" He flashed her a winning smile and offered her his arm. "It cannot be worse than dancing on the street."

The gypsy girl continued to regard him for a moment, and then looked down at the goat. "Well, Djali? What do you think?"

The Maldonian prince's smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure, plastering it back into place. She was talking to a goat? Maybe picking up a date off the street hadn't been such a good idea after all – but on the bright side, he only had to put up with her until they were inside; he only had to be seen arriving with her. After that, she could go jump off a bridge, for all he cared. He glanced down at the goat, which gave the girl what he supposed passed as a sort of goatish shrug. Wait – what?

"Why not? It could be fun," the girl said, shrugging as she dumped the coins from the hat into a small coin purse. She tied the pouch onto the collar around the goat's neck. "You go home, now, Djali," she said, straightening and taking Naveen's arm. She ignored goat as it made a goatish expression of distaste, clearly unhappy about being told to leave.

The goat sauntered off all the same, and its look of goatish displeasure that it shot the girl and the prince over its shoulder as it left did not escape Naveen's notice. He wasn't entirely sure that he was altogether comfortable with being glared at by farm animals, but decided not to think too much of it. The more pressing matter was that he still hadn't the faintest idea of where he was or where he was going. "This is my first time in Paris," he said. "Do you know where the Hôtel de Sully is?"

She nodded, and then abruptly jerked him to the right, turning down a narrow side street. Fleetingly, he had the notion that perhaps she was taking him down some alley where her gypsy friends would be waiting to rob him blind and leave him bleeding in the crisp night air. If that were the case, the joke would be on them; he wasn't married to Charlotte La Bouff yet, after all. His more rational side calmed him; of _course_ he wasn't going to be attacked in some dark alley – she was a native of Paris, after all, and probably knew a million and one shortcuts to anywhere and everywhere he could possibly want to go. She may have been crazy and may have spoken to goats, but Naveen was sure the gypsy girl was anything but a murderer. He hoped so, at any rate.

After traveling down a series of side streets and under several bridges, they emerged into a fairly open courtyard in front of a brightly lit building. Faint music drifted across the yard toward them. The silhouettes of women in large hoop skirts were making their way across the lawn on the arms of their suitors, pausing in the light of the open door to have their invitations verified by the doorman. There was no doubt that this was the right place.

Maybe tonight would shape up to be a good one after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO.**

Upon entering the ballroom, several things became quickly apparent to Naveen. First, Gaston had not been exaggerating when he had called Belle's captor a beast – that hulking, furred thing in the corner could be nothing else. Second, the Frenchman had been accurate in saying that Belle's name suited her well; if Naveen was correct in assuming the pretty brunette in the arms of the Beast was his friend's beloved, she certainly was among the prettiest of the women. And third, sketchy street corners were not the best places to pick up dates; he really felt that he ought to have known this all along, but it was too late for that now. Esmé, or whatever the girl's name was – Naveen really could not have cared less – had slunk away through the crowd almost as soon as they had entered, and he had caught sight of her picking the pockets of a few dignitaries before he lost sight of her completely. Not that he had been sorry to see her go: her bare feet and the mud spattering the hem of her ragtag skirts were drawing negative attention. But now that she had disappeared through the crowd, Naveen found himself quite without a dance partner.

But that didn't matter. After all, he was Naveen, Crown Prince of Maldonia. He was, in short, irresistible.

He straightened his jacket and thrust out his chest, ensuring that his grandfather's brass war medals caught the light satisfactorily, and set out across the ballroom, a dazzling smile firmly in place. He was on the hunt.

It only took a few minutes of prowling to locate his target: a pretty, dark-skinned desert flower twirling across the dance floor with – good Lord, was _that_ her dance partner? The man with his arm around her waist was tall and thin, with a twisted sort of goatee on his chin. The poor girl was too pretty for him; she deserved better. Judging by the look on her face, she, too, felt she deserved better than her current partner. And so Naveen moved in for the kill. As the tall man spun the girl away from him, Naveen caught her other hand in one of his own and yanked her away, giving the man a sort of salute as he pulled the Arabian princess into his arms and across the ballroom.

He felt her body relax and an almost relieved expression crossed her face before she regained her composure. She smiled at him cordially. "You must be Prince Naveen," she said.

"Ah, you know me?" He beamed at her. He loved it when people knew him.

"I know _of_ you," she said. "A real, flesh-and-blood Maldonian prince isn't something you see every day in Andalasia."

He flashed another smile at her as he extended an arm and spun her away. He liked this princess.

She batted her eyes several times as she spun back into him. "Yes – you're one of a kind, aren't you? Just like every other pompous, over-blown, stuck-up pig in here." She cuffed him on the side of the head and disentangled herself from his hold before stalking off the dance floor, fists balled at her sides, grabbing a beignet from the refreshment table and stuffing nearly the whole thing in her mouth as she continued to fume.

Stupefied, unable to believe a woman didn't want him, Naveen stood in the midst of the whirling skirts and dancing couples, staring at the Arabian princess as she began raving, mouth still half-full of fried pastry, hands gesticulating wildly, to the girl serving up punch. That hadn't happened. He hadn't been _rejected_. No. No, no, no.

He looked around at the other partygoers. There was a girl dressed in what seemed to be deerskin tugging on the arm of the stoic man that was obviously her date, begging him to dance with her. There was a pretty redheaded girl in a ghastly, pale pink gown. There was a brunette in violet standing beside the refreshment table, surveying the scene before her with obvious disdain, occasionally opening her mouth to provide a commentary to the Arabian princess's ongoing rant. Gaston was muttering to a pair of blond men, gesturing toward the Beast. Naveen was sure _that_ wouldn't end well, but that wasn't his problem.

"Prince _Naveen_! Well ain't you just the bees' _knees_?" A blonde girl was looking up at him, beaming in a way she clearly thought was demure behind a fan. She thrust out a gloved hand. "Charlotte La Bouff," she said, giggling girlishly as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. "But you can call me Lottie if you'd like."

"_Achitanza_! Lottie it is, _principessa_!" he said brightly. All of his problems had suddenly vanished; Doctor Facilier's plan was beginning to fall into place. Here was Charlotte La Bouff, practically jumping into his arms to be carried down the aisle. Here was his golden ticket to his throne and to his fortune. He put an arm around her waist and whisked her off across the parquet as the band struck up a lively swing tune.

The tables for the banquet were arranged in a sort of semi-circle. In the center, the gypsy girl with whom Naveen had arrived was dancing, evidently having been conscripted into providing entertainment while the dinner was served. The guests were seated so that they all faced inward for better viewing of the dancer, which Naveen thought was rather poor planning in the long run. Each person could only speak to whoever was seated to his immediate right or left without having to lean across anyone. The mass coronation ceremony had been planned to help forge friendships and alliances between the different districts of Andalasia and, in Naveen's case, Maldonia.

The pretty Arabian princess was seated a ways down the table, still looking thoroughly put-out and raving to the girl in violet. Gaston was seated several seats down from the pair, gripping his knife so tightly his knuckles were white as he glared down at the Beast. Charlotte was seated to Naveen's right, but she wasn't paying him any mind, thoroughly engrossed in her almost frantic conversation with the girl to her right. Naveen recognized Lottie's conversation partner as the refreshment-table girl; she seemed uncomfortable with the situation at hand, and kept glancing around, throwing the occasional distasteful look at the young royals around her.

Seeing that he was, for the moment, unable to get to know the girl that would in all probability be his wife before the year was out, Naveen turned to his left. A brunette was sitting there, one elbow propped on the table in front of her, her chin resting in her hand. On the other side of her, two blond men were nodding appreciatively at the evening's entertainment. The brunette wasn't looking at the gypsy girl; her gaze was trained on a small monkey that was stealing food right from the servers' trays, then skittering across the floor and outside before returning for more.

"So, _principessa_, you like animals?"

She jumped at the sudden question and looked sharply at Naveen. She considered for a moment, then gave an off-hand, silent shrug in response.

"I mean to say, you prefer animals to dancing?" he tried again.

"Dancing is fine," she said stiffly, leaning back in her chair. She gestured at the display in front of them. "_That_ is not dancing."

Naveen looked at the gypsy girl. She was leaning across one of the tables, her silk scarf wrapped around a man's neck as she lightly tickled his chin for a moment before flouncing to the other side of the floor to snatch her tambourine and continue on. "I could not agree more, _principessa_," he said gravely. He put a hand lightly on hers. "Perhaps later you will show me what dancing is, yes?"

She looked suddenly affronted and glanced down at his hand.

"_Mi dispiace, principessa_," he said. He removed his hand from hers and gave a start. Trailing between their two hands was a thread of – was that slime? Little wonder she had looked offended. "_Faldi faldonza! Che cosa?_" He wiped a hand on the napkin in his lap and then held it up for inspection. It seemed perfectly normal; he must have imagined it. "All clean, _principessa_. No slime, see?" He turned his hand to demonstrate before lightly placing it back on hers. "So, you will dance with me later?"

She jerked her hand away, and again, a thin thread of slime trailed after it.

Abruptly, Naveen stood, nearly overturning his chair in his haste to get to the washroom. Once at the sink, he scrubbed his hands under scalding hot water furiously for several long moments. When he was sure he had nearly scraped off a layer or two of skin, he shut off the water and held his hands up into the light. No slime; perfectly dry; perfectly normal. "_Che diavolo? _Slime…?"

"It's not slime," said a smooth voice from the corner. Naveen jumped in time to see Doctor Facilier emerging from the shadows. "You're secreting mucus."

"Yes, well, _that_ makes me feel better," the prince said irritably. "What did you do to me? Why am I secreting mucus?"

Facilier chuckled darkly, grinning broadly at him. "The mucus is just a friendly little reminder of the task at hand. You have to marry that little honey Charlotte La Bouff, remember?"

"A friendly little reminder? You are calling this _friendly_?" He waved his arms wildly in the air. "And what if I decide I do not want to marry Charlotte La Bouff? What if I decide I would rather marry… marry…" He struggled to find a name. "I would rather marry some other girl? What then?"

The grin dropped from Facilier's lips. "Then you'll have a lot more to worry about than just slime, your highness. Have a look in the mirror."

Slowly, cautiously, Naveen turned. "_Mia pelle_!" he cried, clapping his hands to the sides of his face. He tugged at his cheeks as though trying to tear off the green that had appeared on his skin. "My beautiful skin! What have you done to me?"

"Just a little insurance policy," Facilier said, throwing an arm around Naveen's shoulders as the Maldonian's skin faded back to its natural colour. "Just keep doing what you're supposed to be doing, and you'll have nothing to worry about. Just marry the La Bouff girl, and everything will be just fine."

Naveen made a miserable sort of noise. The witchdoctor dropped the arm from around his shoulders and stepped backwards, melting into the shadows. After another several minutes of poking and prodding at his face, the prince was satisfied that he was not about to turn green again and that his hands were slime-free. He composed himself, straightened his jacket, and walked out of the washroom and returned to his seat.

"_Ça va?_" the brunette asked him as he seated himself. Lottie hadn't seemed to notice he had left; she was still thoroughly engrossed in what she was saying to her friend, not seeming to notice that Refreshment Table Girl was giving Naveen a half-amused, half-disapproving look.

The prince made a sort of noncommittal noise and looked down at the plate in front of him. The servers had filled it with food since he had been gone, but he suddenly wasn't hungry. It wasn't the thought of marriage that bothered him; it was being rushed into it so quickly. And to a girl that didn't even want to talk about him! He picked up a grape and popped it into his mouth, chewing it moodily.

"_Ça va?_" the girl repeated. "Did you solve your slime problem?"

"Mucus," he corrected. In the long run, though, it really didn't matter if it was slime or if it was mucus. Nothing mattered. He was marring Charlotte La Bouff, and he supposed he should care, but somehow, he didn't. He had always thought that when he got married, he would keep on living his life the way he always had – a brunette on his right, a redhead on his left, and a couple of blondes thrown in for good measure. But now? No. It was Charlotte or it was nothing.

"Mucus," the girl repeated blandly. "_Intéressante._"

He glanced at her, and her expression clearly indicated that she found the topic anything but. Judging by the scowl on her face, her evening wasn't going as planned either. But then, hers couldn't be as bad as his. _She_ wasn't turning green and secreting mucus. "So, you are enjoying yourself, _principessa_?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him, gave a meaningful look in the direction of the man on her left, then back at him. "_Pas du tout_. _Capitaine Chateaupers_ is only interested in women who aren't me, I am the only girl here he has not danced with all evening, and he has hardly said three words since we've arrived." She scowled, but her expression cleared after a moment. "Still," she said, "I suppose it could be worse. I could be secreting mucus, _non_?"

Naveen gave her a dry smile, not finding her comment amusing in the least, but before he could open his mouth to make a response, the girl's date laughed loudly and clapped a hand on her shoulder.

"Sacha! You have to meet John – pardon, Captain Smith – he really is a riot – all his talk of the New World…"

She allowed herself to be introduced to Captain Chateaupers's new friend, smiling pleasantly enough as introductions were made, but as soon as the two blond men were guffawing again, she went back to her sullen silence. She pushed her plate away from her and leaned back in her chair, adjusting the folds of blue satin over her hoop skirt. "So," she said, "you are a prince?"

Naveen perked up at the question; she was asking about him. And he was, of course, his favourite topic of conversation. "Yes," he said, flashing her a smile. "Yes, I am. And I am charming and handsome, no?" He felt his palms begin to sweat; that was strange. He wasn't typically one for sweaty palms. But no, wait, that wasn't – "_Faldi faldonza!_ Stop it – no! You are making me secrete mucus!"

Sacha opened her mouth to say something, but settled for a grimace, any appeal Naveen may had held for her suddenly evaporating as he accused her of making his hands slimy.

"Well, it is too bad for you if you are interested because I am marrying Charlotte La Bouff!" At her name, the blonde on his right looked around. Naveen forcibly looped an arm through hers and then opened his palms, examining them closely. Satisfied they were mucus-free, he breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hands.

"_Fini_?"

Naveen glanced at the brunette. He was not typically on the receiving end of the look she was giving him, but he recognized it instantly nonetheless. "I am not usually like this," he said quickly. "It is – it is the champagne. The champagne, yes – it is too fermented for my taste."

"_Le champagne_," she said, nodding, obviously not buying it. She picked up her own glass and took a sip, turning away from him. Evidently, she would rather be ignored by her date than associate herself with a presumed madman.

Naveen turned to look at Charlotte, but she had already turned away from him, continuing to gossip with her friend. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. Pretending the chandelier was a star, he closed his eyes and wished fervently that the night would end sooner rather than later.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE.**

The night had, much to Naveen's dismay, ended later rather than sooner, and after several more long hours of feasting and dancing, he bade Charlotte La Bouff a good night and then dragged himself and his aching feet back to the chateau. Gaston was nowhere to be seen, but Naveen was too exhausted to care; the Frenchman was probably rescuing his Belle from the clutches of that hideous Beast if he had not done so already.

Hardly bothering to undress, Naveen collapsed into his bed and fell asleep.

He woke the next morning feeling not at all rested. His dreams had been vivid and haunting, dominated by the colour green and malicious, grinning faces that bore striking resemblances to Doctor Facilier. He forced the images from his mind; he had bigger things to worry about. For one, he needed a fiancée by six o'clock that evening, or he could kiss his kingdom good-bye. From what he had seen of Lottie the day before, getting her to say yes wouldn't be much of a problem, even without Doctor Facilier's assurance. The problem, then, would be working up the nerve to ask – but no, nerve wasn't quite the right word. Finesse, maybe – the finesse to make her believe he meant it when he said he wanted her to be his queen. After the coronation he could, of course, break it off; he could go back to doing what he did and leave another broken heart behind him, and that would be that. He would be king; he could do what he wanted. But then, there was always his bargain with Facilier to consider. The man had promised Charlotte La Bouff would marry him. That much seemed true. But Naveen had to keep up his end of the bargain, too, or else he'd spend the rest of his days green and covered in mucus.

And, quite frankly, being green and covered in mucus was not Prince Naveen's ideal way of spending the rest of his days.

:-x-:-x-:-x-:

The day wore on much slower than Naveen could ever have anticipated. He arrived at the Hôtel de Sully promptly at two-seventeen in the afternoon – late enough to make the others concerned that he might not show up, but early enough to be considered fashionably late rather than rude – quickly found Charlotte La Bouff – she was wearing the most ostentatious gown he had ever seen – and seated himself and his soon-to-be-fiancée at one of the long tables.

"_Bonjour, Monsieur Gluant-Crasseux_. No more slime troubles today, I hope?"

The Maldonian glanced to his left and saw the brunette from the night before looking as bored as ever with her date. Captain Chateaupers was seated on the other side of her, blatantly ignoring her as he laughed loudly with his neighbor. Naveen snatched Charlotte's hand as she made a wild hand gesture – she was once again talking to Refreshment Table Girl – and gave it a fond squeeze as he smiled pleasantly at the brunette. "No, _principessa_, no more slime troubles today." He raised Charlotte's hand and lightly brushed his lips across the back of it.

The blonde gave a shrieking giggle, jerked her hand away, and began chattering all the more rapidly to her friend.

Naveen cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, dodging one of Charlotte's wild hand gestures. "I see your_ capitano_ is still preoccupied."

"_Ah_, _oui_. _Capitaine Chateaupers, mon héros._" She rolled her eyes and rested her chin on her hand, her eyes glazing over as she stared absently at the afternoon's entertainment. The gypsy girl was back again and had brought a man with her, and the two were performing a series of illusions and sleight of hand tricks.

Once the two gypsies were done with their performance, had taken their bows, and, Naveen was sure, successfully picked the pockets of no less than half of their audience, they departed, and the servers brought out steaming platters of food. The meal was a quiet affair, the quiet conversation disturbed only when Charlotte shrieked "TIA, 'DYOU HEAR THAT? I'M GETTIN' MARRIED," which Naveen took as an acceptance of his proposal. Several of the princesses beamed at her, apparently thrilled to be able to count the Louisiana sugar baron's daughter as one of their own.

After no less than an hour and a half of picking at the food on his plate, Naveen was relieved to hear King Charmant's footman announce that the coronation would begin shortly. The Maldonian prince stood, pulled back Charlotte's chair, and walked with his new fiancée down a short hallway to the banquet room that would be used for the ceremony. She was babbling away about something to do with her plans for the wedding, which, Naveen was sure, would be the gaudiest sort of wedding imaginable. He had long since stopped listening.

He watched absently as the rest of the guests filled in the space around them. The princesses in their hoopskirts took up nearly three times as much space as their princely counterparts. The girl in deerskins was still hanging onto the arm of her stoic escort, but was listening avidly to Captain Smith. The gypsy girl and her partner were standing to one side, whispering to each other and gesturing absently at the crowd – no doubt they were deciding which of the dignitaries they would be robbing later in the evening. The hubbub gradually died down as the princes and princesses became aware of a robed man standing on the dais in the center of the hall. When near-total silence finally fell, the young royals' excitement tangible in the air, he spoke:

"_Bienvenue à Paris_ – a warm welcome to you all. Before the ceremony begins, I think it only proper to take a moment to remember why we are here today. Our fair Andalasia was once a united land, held together under the protection of the late King Pendragon. His Majesty represented a great many things – truth, justice, but above everything, equality for all. It was his wish that the rule of Andalasia not be restrained to a single lineage, but rather become divided among a council of peers, to be shared in equal parts. That is why we are here today; you are the makings of that council. And now, if you please, a moment of silence in memory and honor of King Pendragon."

In the pause that followed, several servants brought velvet cushions bearing golden crowns and stood to one side of the dais. The robed man looked to see that the men were in place before continuing. "Without further ado, we would now like to begin the ceremony. When you are called, please step forward and accept your place as a leader of Andalasia." He nodded to a servant that held a scroll.

"Princess Jasmine al-Din of the Sultanate of Agrabah," the servant read.

The pretty Arabian girl who had snubbed Naveen the night before stepped forward. The Maldonian prince looked around to see if a prince stepped up to take his place as her male counterpart, but no name was called, and no prince stepped forward.

"By accepting this crown, you hereby accept all responsibilities for the Andalasian district of Agrabah and swear to uphold the Arthurian Creed and Code of Equality as set forth by King Pendragon in the year of our Lord five hundred twenty-three. Do you so swear?"

There was a brief pause. Naveen could only assume her response was affirmative.

"Then, by the powers granted to me by the Catholic church and the district of Paris, I, Claude Frollo, do hereby crown you Sultana Jasmine al-Din of Agrabah."

A thunderous round of applause went up as the crown was placed on the head of the Arabian princess – now the Arabian sultana. She turned, beaming, to face the rest of the royals, then stepped from the dais and rejoined the crowd.

"Prince Eric Andersen and Princess Ariel Kristensen of Copenhagen."

A dark-haired man and the pretty redhead in the ghastly pink dress stepped up to the dais. After they had received their crowns, the girl in the deerskins and the silent man at her side followed suit and moments later were pronounced Weroansqua Pocahontas and Weroans Kocoum of Jamestown. As Prince Adam Jolyot and Belle Barbot were called to take their places as the rulers of La Rochelle, Naveen found himself wishing once again that the night would end sooner rather than later. The sooner he was crowned King of Maldonia, the sooner he would be able to break off his engagement to Charlotte La Bouff and go about living his life as he always had.

This time, his wish was granted.

As Judge Frollo raised the crown above the head of the Beast, the candles in the room flickered and went out. There was a deafening clap of thunder. Somebody screamed. Charlotte's hand found Naveen's and clutched it tightly as a low cackle echoed through the room. The cackling stopped at another thunderclap.

Slowly, light returned to the hall, beginning with an eerie green glow from the dais. Belle, Prince Adam, and Frollo had stepped from the raised platform and rejoined the crowd to make room for the robed woman now standing in the center of the room. A hushed murmuring went up as she turned her horned head to survey the crowd around her, the shadow of a smile playing on her lips. She clacked the butt of her staff against the floor, and silence fell.

"No invitation…?" she mused. In the silence, her soft voice drifted easily over the heads of the nobles and dignitaries. Her eyes came to rest on a blonde princess, and she sneered. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time… But perhaps this was just an unhappy mistake?"

The blonde princess clutched at the arm of the man on her left. "You weren't wanted, Maleficent."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Not wanted? Now, why does that sound familiar? Ah, yes – I remember being told the same thing nineteen years ago at your christening. And where are your dear aunts, Aurora? I'd much like to see them." She paused a moment, but Princess Aurora seemed at a loss for words. "But never mind all that – this is a coronation, is it not? And I believe it is high time I received my crown." She extended a hand, and a raven swooped over the heads of the guests, dropping one of the golden crowns into her open palm before coming to rest on her shoulder.

"Crowned as what?" the prince beside Aurora asked as Maleficent delicately placed the crown on her head. "You were banished three years ago – you have no place to call your home. You have no place to claim as your kingdom."

"Ah, ah, ah – you forget, Prince Phillip. I was banished to Maldonia. And if Andalasia is represented here tonight, why should Maldonia be neglected? But wait…" She gestured with her staff, and the crowd parted as though fearful she might suddenly lash out at them, creating a direct path between her and Naveen. She stepped off the dais and stepped easily toward him, the crowd drawing back farther still as she passed. "Naveen, isn't it?" she asked softly. "The Crown Prince of Maldonia. Your Majesty—" She inclined her head slightly. She looked back up at him, a faint sneer tugging at her lips. "And such a handsome face—"

Naveen jerked away as she reached out to touch him.

Maleficent turned away from him with a high cackle, making her way back to the raised platform at the room's center. "You know," she said, looking back at Aurora and Phillip once more. "I'm not the only one who failed to receive an invitation."

She clacked her staff against the floor again, and the doors of the hall flew open. A fierce wind extinguished the candles. The only light remaining in the hall was the eerie green glow at the head of Maleficent's staff. A cacophony of shrieks and dark laughter filled the room, and Naveen took that as his cue to leave. He was sure this wouldn't end well. He disentangled himself from Charlotte's grip and hurried to the nearest exit.

"And where do you think you're going?"

He stifled a yelp as he felt a hand close on his arm. He looked to see Refreshment Table Girl frown at him before throwing a concerned look at the rest of the crowd, who had begun to panic.

"You're just like the rest of them," she said, looking back at him sharply. "You're only out for yourself."

There was a shout that sounded horribly like "OFF WITH THEIR HEADS" over the general commotion, and the pit of Naveen's stomach dropped. Slowly, he turned to look back at the crowd, and caught a glimpse of a soldier.

"_Faldi faldonza! La Regina di Cuori_!"

Without another thought or moment's hesitation, he grabbed Refreshment Table Girl's arm and yanked her after him, forcing her to follow him out across the lawn. Her protests fell on deaf ears – the girl didn't know what was for her own good. Naveen glanced over his shoulder at another explosion of sound. A column of smoke was rising into the night, and the rest of the guests were spilling out of the open doors, impeded by their own terror.


End file.
